


How Far Does That One Go?

by werewolfsaz



Series: Fishnets, Piercings And Tattoos [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Goth!John, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, shy!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:05:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werewolfsaz/pseuds/werewolfsaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gazed around Sherlock's room, fascinated by the various experiments and the multitude of books piled everywhere. He started slightly when cool, shy fingers traced the edge of his neck tattoo.<br/>"How far does that one go?" Sherlock asked in his deep, erotic voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Far Does That One Go?

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yes, it's about to get sexy up in here.... I really can't pull that off, can I? Oh well. Here we go, ladies and gents.  
> Comments are greatly appreciated and much loved :)  
> Oh, also, this is a rough idea of the tattoo ;) http://n.nshrine.com/1483/lbracketurl.jpg  
> Enjoy

Two weeks had passed since the Anderson incident. Two weeks in which John and Sherlock got closer every day. They were inseparable, going to classes together, hanging out after school until one or the other of their parents starting ringing, demanding they came home.

Neither cared, too wrapped up in getting to know each other better. Sherlock was endlessly fascinated by John's clothing and piercings, always touching, feeling the smoothness of the metal or the difference between mesh and John's skin. The blonde didn't mind. In fact, he thought it was adorable.

"Do people in your family not touch each other or something?" John asked fondly one day as he walked Sherlock home. The tall teen was holding his hand, tracing the patterns of his rings, the contours of his fingers.  
"Not really. Touching is... Uncomfortable between members of my family. We don't do it, as a rule."

"That's...Odd," John commented carefully. He didn't really understand Sherlock's family. The way they acted towards each other seemed almost uninterested. But when it came to the buddig romance between the teens, they didn't hesitate to butt in.

Sherlock hummed absently then tugged John's hand to get his full attention.  
"Do you want to come in?" he asked shyly, nodding towards the house. "My parents are away for the week and Mycroft isn't going to be back til late."  
John smiled at the blush on Sherlock's sculpted cheeks. Reaching up to cup the back of his neck, the blonde pulled the taller teen down for a soft, languid kiss.  
"Alright," he murmured against soft lips.

They walked into the huge house hand in hand, John curiously examining his surroundings. He had been as far as the porch in his other visits but now he got to see the inside. The furniture was obviously antique, finely crafted and probably priceless. Huge bookshelves, bureaus and dark, heavy tables were tucked away in various corners. John promised himself he would explore before Sherlock's parents returned.

"Where's your room?" he asked innocently, gazing at a long line of portraits. Sherlock's beautifully chiseled features were clearly a culmination of generations of fine genetics. One woman, several portraits down, had clearly been the original source of his wondrous eyes. She lacked the defined facial structure but those blue/silver/green/gold were undoubtedly the same.  
"This way," Sherlock interrupted his musings, pulling John along with him up the long stairs. 

More portraits, either oil paintings or posed photographs, adorned the stairs until, near the top, was a large photograph that made John stop and stare. The woman was very lovely, pale skin, her wavy hair flowing down her back like a dark waterfall, her face narrow with an aquiline nose and large, piercing eyes. The man could have been an older version of Sherlock. His hair was silvery and cut severely short, his eyes were that same mixture of many colors. The cheekbones were razors sharp, making him look more like an axe blade with eyes than a man.

In front of the unsmiling pair were two children, one obviously older than the other, dressed in matching navy blue suits and white shirts.  
"What a God awful day that was," Sherlock shuddered, eyeing the picture with undisguised hatred. "Mother insisted on those ridiculous suits. She wanted us to look like miniatures of Father but, of course, he choose to wear black instead. The most awful three hours of my life, posing for the 'perfect shot'." He made the air quotes, rolling his expressive eyes.

John studied young Sherlock closely, feeling a surge of protectiveness for the small, timid figure captured on film. But he was distracted when Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist from behind, turning and guiding him down a long, dim hallway.  
"All the way at the end, where my music won't bother anyone," the taller teen stated, chin resting on John's shoulder.  
"Who could ever be bothered by your music?" the blonde asked incredulously. He had been treated to several impromptu concerts, moved to laughter, tears or deep contemplation by the skill of Sherlock's playing.

"Mycroft complains so Mother insisted," Sherlock shrugged, reaching out to open the door and push it open. John gazed around Sherlock's room, fascinated by the various experiments and the multitude of books piled everywhere. He started slightly when cool, shy fingers traced the edge of his neck tattoo.  
"How far does that one go?" Sherlock asked in his deep, erotic voice, lightly drawing the edge of his nail over the swirling pattern. This was the one tattoo he was yet to see, always covered by John's coat or shirt. Turning his head slightly, John grinned mischievously.  
"If you can guess, I'll show it to you," he smirked, moving to sit on the large bed.

Sherlock blushed again, hating his stupid body and its stupid reactions to John's every word. But he studied the smaller teen for a moment then sat next to him, placing his hand between his shoulder blades.  
"I think it comes to here," he stated confidently, fighting down the new blush at the heat of John's body.  
"Nope," the other grinned. "Not even close. One more guess... As it's you."  
Sliding his hand lower, heart speeding up at the supple curve of John's spine under his palm, Sherlock stopped it in the small of his back and raised an eyebrow.

"Still wrong," John smirked. "Would you like me to show you?"  
His voice had dropped to a purr even as his hands dipped to the hem of his shirt, the many buckled straps jingling as he moved. Sherlock swallowed thickly, unable to answer. He simply nodded, his heart pounding so loudly he feared it would burst through his chest. Gripping the hem of his shirt, John pulled it off in one fluid motion, dropping it on the bed next to him.

The early evening light glittered on his nipple rings, turning the silver hoops into rings of fire. The serpent tattoo on his chest seemed to writhe when he moved, swaying its head as if scenting prey or preparing to strike. Standing, John reached for his heavy studded belt, quickly unbuckling it.  
"Don't worry," he hurriedly assured Sherlock, seeing the sudden nervousness on his face. "Just showing you how far it goes."  
Turning his back to the dark haired teen, John pushed his jeans and boxers partly down and waited. He knew what Sherlock was seeing. He only wished he could see his face as he examined it.

The parts he had been tracing earlier had been the topmost branches of Yggdrasil, the Norse Tree of Life. The branches spread across his shoulders, down over the wings of his shoulder blades. The trunk followed the line of his spine, the three great roots spreading over the small of his back and down over his buttocks. Around his left thigh wound a black and grey dragon, chewing the end of one root, holding a corpse in one claw. 

"That... Is fantastic!" Sherlock exclaimed, awed. "So many details. So much to explore." He reached out with eager fingers, tracing the swirling lines, the vivid colors and patterns. John chuckled as the ticklish touches moved lower down his body finally halting just above the swell of his behind. Twisting round, John looked back at Sherlock, smiling softly at the reverence on his face.

"Took bloody months to finish. Cost a small fortune. And please don't ever ask how I afforded it," John shrugged, pulling his boxers and jeans back up. Spinning, he climbed onto Sherlock's lap, straddling his thighs.  
"I was thinking of a tattoo for you but you're just perfect as you are," he rumbled, bending to kiss the long, pale column of Sherlock's throat. The dark haired youth groaned, hands caressing the bare, warm flesh of John's sides.

After that it was a heated blur of hungry kisses and fumbling, clumsy touches. Surging forward, John pushed Sherlock onto his back, attacking the buttons of his shirt almost angrily. Then he paused, staring down at his boyfriend. Wild midnight curls tumbled around his face, cheeks flushed, lips kiss bruised and swollen. His shirt was mostly undone and shoved aside, the fading light giving his alabaster skin a bronzed glow.

"You're so gorgeous, 'Lock," he breathed, leaning down to run his tongue, and tongue stud, over one nipple. Sherlock gasped, arching into the touch, heat rushing through him. He'd never felt anything like this before. It was as if his skin was too small, his blood was on fire and the only thing he could think of was...  
"John!" he cried, gripping the blonde's arms, yanking him closer, rolling his hips up to press deliciously together.  
"'Lock... Oh, yes, that's it," John moaned loudly, lost in the liquid feeling flowing through him. A hot spike of pure lust shot through him when Sherlock dug his nails into his shoulders. "Sherlock!" he gasped.

"Sherlock?"  
The teens froze, eyes huge as they stared at each other.  
"Mycroft!" Sherlock hissed, cheeks flaming. He scrambled to get out from under John, diving to block the door just as the handle turned.  
"Sherlock? What's going on in there?" Mycroft's plumy tones demanded.

"N...N..Nothing," Sherlock stammered, leaning harder against the door. John sauntered passed him, nudging him aside and opening the heavy oak door.  
"Alright, Myc," he smirked, drawing Sherlock against his side. "Don't mind us. No noise to be heard from this far back in the house."  
With a wicked grin and cheeky wink, he swung the door shut in Mycroft's stunned face.


End file.
